


Fugue

by kamextoise



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist (Anime 2003), Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Circus, Canon: Fullmetal Alchemist: Conqueror of Shamballa, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-03
Updated: 2020-04-03
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:28:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23457823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kamextoise/pseuds/kamextoise
Summary: Given that Kimbley manages to injure himself no less than three times a season, and has been hospitalized enough times he’s on first-name basis with the entire burn ward, Archer isn’t so convinced he made the right decision.
Relationships: Frank Archer/Zolf J. Kimblee
Kudos: 17





	Fugue

Late autumn in Munich.

There’s maybe two weeks before the winter weather really sets in, before the mild chill gives way to temperatures too cold to keep the circus going, and it closes again until May. The semi-permanent location does hold its advantages, but only for so long. And if the rent goes any higher, well…

It’s Frank Archer’s least favorite time of the year, because it means he’s more focused on accounting than ever, and in the middle of a recession so bad he’s resorted to paying his workers in Swiss francs. The mark isn’t worth much more than kindling for the fireplace in his office, and though he’s doing well enough he isn’t concerned right now, the amount of “unexpected” medical bills from the star attraction is enough to make anyone pause.

Or consider retiring said attraction permanently.

“The burn’s not that bad!” his companion whines, nursing his bandaged arm. 

Seated across from him, Zolf J Kimbley. Twelve years ago, he’d been a pickpocket who’d managed to charm Archer. It had led to the bedroom, not a call to the police and an arrest. Given that Kimbley manages to injure himself no less than three times a season, and has been hospitalized enough times he’s on first-name basis with the entire burn ward, Archer isn’t so convinced he made the right decision.

He’s half-naked, making Archer grateful the door to his office is currently locked. At least, that’s what Kimbley assured him when he swaggered in with no shirt, and trousers low on his hips. There’s no good reason for him to be foregoing so much of his clothing, especially this time of year. It might not be cold enough for frostbite, but it’s not far off. It’s also a little too close to revealing too much, but the excuse of needing to examine the state of Kimbley’s injuries should be good enough for anyone who decides to ask questions.

Archer’s paranoia about being found out won’t abate any time soon, even with Kimbley’s assurances that the workers would defend them and play stupid. That only makes it worst, honestly.

That implies that people are aware that they’re in a relationship. He doesn’t want to think about what could happen for the two of them if people start talking.

Kimbley is right, though, as far as injuries he’s had before. There have been ones that are much, much worse. “The scars on your back say otherwise,” Archer counters instead of agreeing. Kimbley lets out a put-upon sigh. Archer thinks that’s the end of it, a sign that maybe, just maybe, his madman of a fire performer has learned a valuable lesson, until Kimbley puts both his feet on Archer’s desk. Archer doesn’t bother telling Kimbley to take his feet off the desk, instead pointedly shoving them away from the precariously stacked expense forms.

“Who cares, we’re done for the season end of next week.”

“That’s no excuse to shrug off second-degree burns on your arms, Kimbley,” he mutters. “How are we to pull off the grand finale for the season with you so injured, hm?” 

Kimbley shrugs at him, glancing at the door before he says, “Shouldn’t you be thinking about your own act?” He sits up, though, removing his feet from the desk without causing the stack of papers to scatter on the floor by some miracle, and props his head up on his elbows instead, getting much closer into Archer’s space than he lets anyone else. He tips his head, intent obvious, and Archer doesn’t stop him when the man kisses him. It’s surprisingly restrained, a soft press of his lips once, twice, thrice, and then he pulls away, looking smug. Like he’s gotten away with something. He moves faster than Kimbley expects, pinning him to the desk, careful to mind the papers as Kimbley’s pupils dilate, nearly black. “Wow,” he purrs. “Not bad for the guy who grew up in a circus.” Archer holds him by his shoulders, not touching the other man’s bandages. He’s not even actually holding him down, not really.

Archer leans in closer, even as Kimbley grinds his hips against him, making him groan in surprise. “You did lock the door?” he manages.

“Yeah,” he says lowly. “I never thought I’d get you to agree to a fuck in your office.”

In an instant, Archer jerks back, face red, hands smoothing through his hair. “I wasn’t, I never—!”

Kimbley laughs from his desk, propping himself up on his hands, legs spreading invitingly. “Changed your mind?” His pants are so low, it’s obscene, and he tips his hips forward, just a little. He can see black hairs peaking out from just above the waistband. “And here I thought you were finally getting adventurous.” Archer can feel his mouth going dry, swallowing hard.

“I…” he begins, with no clear idea what he’s going to say next. A part of him wants—he doesn’t understand it himself, not really. The idea of Kimbley taking initiative, maybe shoving him up against his own desk for a change, trousers unzipped. Kimbley’s strong, strong enough despite his frame he could make for an interesting competition for their Strong Man. That’s an idea— something for next year, to switch up the routine— And then Kimbley is standing, adjusting his pants, keeping them low, flashing Archer an inviting smile and he strides over to examine the flag Archer hangs above his desk. 

How he can take a rejection with such stride, Archer doesn’t know. He’d be entirely flippant if asked, too. It’s not as though Archer is usually as overt as Kimbley, certainly not, especially not when they’re not entirely alone, but if Kimbley had turned him down so flatly he isn’t so sure he’d do nothing more than give a flirty smile to the other man.

“I bet I could turn that into an interesting outfit, for the final show,” Kimbley says casually. “Blue and white checkers. It’d be fetching, and patriotic, don’t you think?”

“Absolutely not. You’re not cutting up my flag. You don’t even know how to sew!” 

Kimbley laughs, and in that moment, he looks so young and carefree. “The ladies who do all of our costume touch-ups taught me.” He doesn’t make a move towards the flag, though Archer stands just the same, moving to block the flag from reach.

“I’m still not letting you use it,” Archer mutters, looking his flag over, just to make sure Kimbley hasn’t already harmed it. That’s final; he doesn’t have the funds to replace it even if he wanted Kimbley to desecrate a flag. Besides that, the flag is precious and rare now; he’s not letting go of it when it’ll be impossible to find a new one in the current political climate. Behind him, Kimbley sighs loudly, but seems to relent because a moment later he’s at Archer’s side.

“We should do a routine together,” he says after a while, not looking at Archer. “It’s been a while since we’ve preformed together.” It _has_ been a while, maybe a year or more. Hardly any of the tourists, or even the locals, would believe how capable Archer actually is. He’s been running the business side of things for so long, sometimes he forgets himself. “I can rig some of the fireworks to detonate remotely,” Kimbley purrs. “Really heat things up. You can go up in the air, do your acrobatics,” his hand slips to the small of Archer’s back. He doesn’t stop Kimbley. “Get the crowd to ‘ooh’ and ‘aah’ at your moves to some well-timed explosions…” He slides his hand underneath Archer’s waistband, not moving lower, warm against his skin. “We’ll blow their minds!”

The joke is so bad, he shoves Kimbley. “Be serious!”

“I am being serious,” Kimbley says with a mischievous grin. He already has a plan in mind, Archer can see it in his eyes. Maybe they’ve known each other for too long, because there was a time Archer thinks wasn’t so long ago that Kimbley would be complaining about how Archer planned things in advance to the point of annoyance, and now here he is. Annoyed that Kimbley clearly has something in mind, and doesn’t seem in a hurry to share.

**

It’s a few hours later they find themselves back in their own space, out of Archer’s office and into their small shared room. Kimbley is flipping through his ridiculous dog-eared notebook lazily on the couch, resting his legs on Archer’s lap. It’s hard to listen to the radio with the little noises he’s making while flipping through, trying to goad Archer into reacting.

“Must you do that?”

It’s a mistake, because it’s exactly what Kimbley wants, but he’s smirking, setting the notebook on his chest as he looks Archer over. “You’re the one who’s always working, now you’re giving me shit when I’m trying to figure out my routine?” Kimbley purrs. He flips his notebook over, showing off his frankly complicated-looking notes and various mathematical formulas that have to do with the composition of his fireworks. Archer doesn’t know much about it; the math doesn’t make any sense to him, but he does know it’s a shorthand for Kimbley’s personal recipes.

“You know I can’t read that,” Archer mutters.

“Different materials create different colors, and different explosions. I’m thinking out how best to end the season.”

Archer sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Elaborate.”

The other man smirks, sitting up a little, though he doesn’t move his legs from Archer’s lap. “Strontium, when used as a coloring agent makes things red, yeah? It’s a pretty basic color, it’s why I keep so much on hand.”

“You’ve told me that much before.”

Kimbley continues, his expression bright. “And copper, when used, is blue. So, combine strontium and copper together and,” he mimes an explosion with his hands. “Boom!” He gives a quiet little laugh. “Purple! The crowds eat this shit up when they see it. Temperature can affect the color, too.” He goes on for a while. A part of Archer is convinced that, if Kimbley hadn’t found a creative and relatively safe outlet, he’d probably be setting fire to the city just to see how the different buildings burn. He goes on, telling Archer with no little excitement that he’d finally figured out how to make a bluish green color.

 _That_ does catch Archer’s attention. “I haven’t seen you use anything like that before.”

“No,” Kimbley grins. “It’s brand new; people have been telling me it’s impossible for years, but I figured out the formula. First person in Germany to do it, I’m pretty sure. Maybe the first person in the world.”

“That would be something to remember, hmm?”

Kimbley does sit up then, close, and entirely in Archer’s space. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “What do you think? Do you want to leap through my fireworks?” He leans in close with a mischievous smile, pressing his lips to Archer’s.

“What if I told you,” Archer breathes, “that I think you’ll set fire to the tents?”

Kimbley is already halfway on Archer’s lap, it only takes him a moment to slide onto it fully, hands loosely gripping Archer’s shoulders. “I think you need to have a little _faith._ Right in the middle, away from the tents, in the prime space for the audience? They’ll love it. We’ll be getting people from the other side of the continent next year, just to see what we’re doing.”

“You’re exaggerating,” Archer murmurs against Kimbley’s lips. But he’s smiling just the same.

It’s actually making him giddy, the idea that Kimbley has created something new, something yet to be seen. But he knows Kimbley; the man is prone to boasts he can’t actually back. If they’re going to use this as the final act of the season, he’s going to make sure the formula is both real and actually _works._

“Show me tomorrow.”

“Sure,” Kimbley says easily. Too easily, especially with the grin on his lips. For a moment, Archer thinks that’s all there will be to it; easy agreement, a night they can spend by the radio with cups of tea, when maybe Kimbley really can handle something just this once.

And then, naturally, he has to ruin it.

“So, we’re still going to fuck, right?”

**Author's Note:**

> Once again, a huge thank you to [gravesecret](https://gravesecret.tumblr.com/) for the wonderful illustrations that go with the fic.


End file.
